Every evening at exactly seven o’clock, Leonard climbed onto the windowsill and waited.

Not for dinner. Not for birds. For music.

His owner, Margaret, taught piano lessons from the living room. She claimed Leonard loved music because he never left while she played.

This was only half true.

Leonard loved music in 4/4.

He tolerated 3/4.

He regarded 6/8 as a youthful indiscretion.

But the moment someone attempted 5/4, his tail began twitching like an irritated metronome.

The first time it happened was during Take Five.

Three measures into the piece Leonard stopped grooming himself, looked up with genuine concern, and walked directly onto the keyboard.

Margaret apologized to her student.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

Leonard knew exactly what had gotten into him.

Five.

He despised five.

Over the years Margaret accumulated students whose musical ambitions far exceeded their technical abilities.

One became obsessed with progressive rock.

Another discovered Balkan folk music.

A jazz drummer arrived every Tuesday carrying books with impossible titles like Metric Modulations for the Contemporary Improviser.

Leonard viewed him as a dangerous influence.

One afternoon the drummer counted:

“One-two-three-four-five-six-seven…”

Leonard immediately left the room.

He returned carrying a dead mouse.

No one understood the symbolism.

The drummer merely thanked him.

By autumn Leonard had developed an uncanny diagnostic ability.

He could detect a coming time signature before the first note was played.

A student would sigh.

Adjust the sheet music.

Raise both hands.

Leonard would narrow his eyes.

“Seven,” his expression seemed to say.

Then he’d leave.

People began treating him as a kind of rhythmic oracle.

“Leonard,” Margaret would ask while arranging new music on the piano.

“What do you think?”

If the cat remained asleep, everyone relaxed.

If he quietly exited the room, they turned immediately to page three where, almost invariably, lurked an eleven-eight section.

Music professors heard stories.

One visited from the university carrying pages of modernist piano music.

He smiled.

“I understand your cat has opinions.”

Leonard climbed onto the piano.

The professor began.

The opening bars wandered freely through shifting meters.

Five.

Seven.

Nine.

Then thirteen.

Leonard stared for exactly twelve seconds.

He slowly climbed down.

Walked to the front door.

Sat facing outward.

The professor laughed.

“I’ve been reviewed.”

Margaret smiled apologetically.

“No,” she said.

“You’ve been dismissed.”

Years passed.

Leonard grew old.

His hearing softened.

His jumps became smaller.

One winter evening Margaret decided to play something she had avoided for decades.

A difficult contemporary sonata that wandered through every imaginable meter before resolving, many pages later, into a broad, patient four.

She expected Leonard to leave immediately.

Instead he remained.

Five.

Seven.

Nine.

Eleven.

He listened without moving.

Then, just as the music finally settled into four, Leonard stood, stretched, and walked over to Margaret.

He rubbed gently against her ankle.

Only then did Margaret understand.

It had never been the odd time signatures he hated.

It was uncertainty without arrival.

He didn’t mind getting lost.

He simply wanted to know that, eventually, everyone would find their way home.